


Making a Living

by colourinside



Series: Of Monsters and Men [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: @GeraltofRivia, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Follow your Witcher on Instagram, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Still a Witcher, Jaskier is Geralt's self-proclaimed social media manager, Jaskier is a freelance journalist, Jaskier is absolutely pining, Jaskier made Geralt an Instagram account
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23139463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colourinside/pseuds/colourinside
Summary: Indeed, there is nothing a good journalist won't do. Jaskier convinces Geralt to take him along on a hunt, all for purposes of documentation. Soon, Jaskier's quest for Instagram photos turns into something much more serious and much more uncomfortable.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Of Monsters and Men [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1662481
Comments: 3
Kudos: 66





	Making a Living

**Author's Note:**

> The creature referenced in this story actually appears in Slavic folklore. Although there isn't much about it on Wikipedia, all sources seem to agree on its physical appearance and modus operandi, which will be described hereinafter. Further research led me to realise that the creature actually seems to have been mentioned somewhere in the vast Witcher game canon - I don't know, you tell me.

Among the many things he has learned from Geralt stands this: Stay clear of swamps. It seems any kind of frightful creature loves the wet, squelching, oozing, stinking swamp.

There is nothing a good journalist won’t do if curiosity beckons. It pushes, it itches, so much so that just for curiosity’s sake, Jaskier has asked – has needled – Geralt to take him along on a hunt. All but haunted by thoughts of fantastic photo opportunities, it was impossible to drop the subject, impossible to get Jaskier to reconsider his dangerous request. Bonkers. Outright insane, as Geralt said – as far as suicidal. Really? It’s not like journalism never goes as far as travelling right into the quivering heart of a war zone – to get to the core of the matter. _Suit yourself._ And that is what Jaskier will do. He is already excited over pictures not yet taken. Instagram will lap up those dramatic shots of Geralt of Rivia wielding his silver blade in a _harrowing_ struggle with a _vicious_ beast. Besides, very few can pride themselves on ever having witnessed such a fight first-hand.

Another thing Jaskier has learned: There is much less glory in monster fighting, much less even than the dirt and the blood and the injuries beneath the tattered armour would suggest.

It is filthy. It is straining. It brings Jaskier to the limits of his considerable physical fitness. Going to the gym at least three times a week is laughable next to walking and climbing steep hills for miles, then running and dodging, jumping and charging, stumbling, falling, striking back— Repeat. Naturally, Jaskier had respect for the Witcher before, but he feels that he has now ascended to a higher level of understanding. Geralt does this – things much worse than this – for a living. He shouldn’t be _alive_ after all those years, but against all odds, he still is, and he still does this – for a _living_.

 _Living_ sometimes involves finding and slaying a Bukavac. Rare creatures those, but that doesn’t mean much. Geralt says that about many beasts, himself included. Those particular rare creatures are among the ones that adore lakes and the dampness of swamps. They attract attention to themselves by climbing, dripping and stinking, out of the water and uttering a guttural, ear-shattering scream – ear plugs barely help with the pain. This one’s demise is that it has attacked and gutted a few too many dog walkers – and their dogs. Just like that, Geralt is sent to butcher it.

The Bukavac leaves them waiting though.

“Are you sure this is the right lake?”

Geralt doesn’t respond, only cowers there, keenly observing the stir of the waters, the fine ripples in the reeds. Jaskier has never seen him quite as stoic, sword jutting from beneath his arm, prepared for the strike. Geralt hums and shuffles carefully, kicking a small stone into the water.

Jaskier gets pictures, so many pictures. The scene is gorgeous, despite his fearful anticipation, his tension, his anxiety, his hammering heart, the tightness in his throat. He still takes pictures, non-stop, all wide-shots because Geralt commanded him to keep a distance. Wide-shots it is, from all angles, high and low. The conditions are perfect, the sky is picturesquely clear, the moon is large, almost full and round and white against the darkening sky. Geralt sits like a marble statue at the edge of the lake, a relic of another time with his black and silver armour, white hair spilling down his back, moving gently and in sync with the reeds swaying and rustling in the breeze. It could be almost tranquil, and the colour composition truly is that: a composition. In his mind, Jaskier adds an Instagram caption: “The calm before the storm.”

Then, the Bukavac shoots out of the water and the idyll turns into horror. Geralt has described the beast, of course, vaguely, as Geralt’s descriptions go, but what he failed to mention is the fact that this creature looks like a demon, like an illustration taken straight from the Satanic Bible. It has huge horns, gnarled and twisted like thick tree branches, and it scrambles out of the gargling waves on six legs – decidedly too many legs.

Jaskier barely manages to hold back a scream, which would have been swallowed immediately by the rumbling bellow that breaks out of the creature’s mouth, much worse, he imagines, than a striking explosion, shattering all that may have been left of tranquillity.

When Jaskier opens his eyes again, he can see Geralt stumble as if with vertigo. He is wearing ear plugs, of course, but he is also much closer to the source of the _noise_ and Jaskier doesn’t want to imagine how much more acute, how much more disorienting the screams must be for his heightened sense of hearing. He supposes that sometimes, it would be useful if one could turn down the sensitivity of one’s ears.

He clutches his phone in his sweating hands and, frantically, he takes pictures as the creature charges at Geralt, crown of horns held high. He gasps as Geralt ducks, clasps his mouth shut in panic, as he realises the danger suddenly immanent in every uttered sound. The creature’s sense of smell isn’t the best he recalls Geralt saying, but its hearing is all the better for it. Geralt falls suddenly and one of the creature’s six legs collides with his chest, slamming him effectively into the soft earth. Jaskier can hear the breath escaping his lungs and suddenly, he is scared, suddenly he regrets everything, and he forgets about taking pictures altogether when Geralt shouts “Fuck.” and then _“Run!”_ and his life is on the line. Because suddenly, the Bukavac, that swift, six-legged, screaming creature is more interested in the journalist.

He doesn’t hesitate, not even for a second. He turns and he runs, but of course, he can’t outrun the beast on six legs and nothing else registers when the Bukavac’s body collides with his and he takes off, he flies. The impact, the fall makes him feel as though getting pumped like an accordion, all air squeezed out in one wheezing sound. He expects one of the legs to stomp his face in, he feels the movement of air just inches from his nose before something jumps at the beast, effectively pushing it off course.

The blade makes the most horrible sound Jaskier has ever heard when it strikes clean through the Bukavac’s skull, protruding from its forehead like a third horn. This time, Jaskier can’t hold back the screaming, the cursing, the panting. He feels something wet splatter his face. _Oh god oh god oh god._

He realises that he may have been the bait, the bait for the two beasts hunting each other over him – only the Wolf was faster – _thank god_ , Geralt was faster. The blood rushes loudly in his head, his own heartbeat feels like another world-shifting scream in his ears. He tries to swallow, thickly.

“Does this convince you to stay home next time?”

Geralt’s words are slow to get through to him, still he picks up the strange nuance in his tone. His voice is harsh, but there’s a faint tremor in it. He is catching his breath.

When Jaskier’s eyes focus on Geralt, he sees that he is full of blood, so much blood that he can’t tell what of it is Bukavac blood and what of it is Geralt’s own.

“Not—convinced,” Jaskier forces out, his throat is dry, he feels light-headed and his legs are aching, not just from hiking and running.

“Hmm.” Geralt turns away, pulls out a small device from a pocket Jaskier didn’t know he had.

“What—”

“Coordinates,” Geralt answers the unasked question. “Can’t just leave the body to rot, it will attract other vermin.”

He tucks the device away and it’s then that Jaskier’s eyes widen so much that he feels they might bulge from his skull.

“Fuck,” he breathes, hands ghosting frantically across his own body, “Fuck, my phone, where is my _phone?”_

One minute it was in his hand, the next it wasn’t.

“Geralt, my phone—”

“I don’t know where you put it!”

He searches his pockets once more, twice more, his throat closes as if the Bukavac was after him again, horns cutting violently through the air.

“Fuck, I can’t have lost it! The pictures, all the pictures, Geralt!”

The magnificent _calm before the storm_ , the tantalising climb through the endless woods, the fairy-tale landscape, the sight for sore eyes that is Geralt of Rivia surrounded by lean birch trees – and Jaskier wants to _cry._

“There was so much more than this, so much I haven’t posted yet!”

His eyes search the trampled forest ground, trying to penetrate the falling darkness.

“Fuck!” Nothing but sticks and stones and the broken, bleeding, stinking body of the Bukavac. Fuel for nightmares. The wind picks up.

“Jaskier. We have to go.” There is concern in Geralt’s voice. It has never sounded darker.

“No, it must be here somewhere! Geralt, your eyes are better equipped for this, help me—”

“Jaskier!”

How can you argue with that? In the end, the journalist does not retrieve his phone. The pictures are lost, at least Instagram will never see them, but they remain very real and very vivid in Jaskier’s night terrors.

There is another thing he has learned: he’ll leave the Witcher to do his job, let him do what he does best. And Jaskier will do what he does best – he will sing the Witcher’s praises. Still, until he has recovered from his shock, he will be even more sick with dread and worry for Geralt than ever before. Because he knows now how hard it truly is for the Witcher to both make a living and stay alive.

**Author's Note:**

> This AU was inspired losely by our favourite song: Toss a coin to your Witcher oh Valley of--- and so on and so forth.  
> Based on this, we all know to: Support your Witcher on Patreon. Like and subscribe to your Witcher--- etc etc.  
> And that is how the idea of Jaskier the social media manager took form and the AU basically created itself around that - also thanks to the help of my lovely and very inspiring fellow fangirl CaricatureOfAWitch :)
> 
> Also, even though this is probably far-fetched due to the AU setting, it has to be said: I have only watched the Netflix series and don't know much about neither the books nor the games, so please go easy on me.


End file.
